


Sugar and Spice

by tattedmariposa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattedmariposa/pseuds/tattedmariposa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gratuitous AU smut in which Ike bakes Soren a cake.  Pretty much says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Spice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amielleon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amielleon/gifts).



> For Amielleon, who suggested that I write "the girliest of girlporn." According to her, this was a success (at least in that regard). :-P

Apple peels littered the kitchen counter, and flour smattered the floor. Dirty measuring cups and mixing bowls filled the sink. Confectioner's sugar was everywhere (in places Ike didn't even want to think about). But most importantly, the product of the last two hours' work was waiting on the table.

Ike looked up at the plastic-framed face of the clock, hanging in its place above the doorway. It said that Soren would be home any minute, and the back of his mind said that Soren, as always, would be none too pleased with the mess in the kitchen. But the thought faded away, lost among the pleasant lingering sweetness in the air, a mingling of fruit and starch and spices. 

Soren's tendencies toward valuing time and frugality over none-too-small matters such as the way food actually tasted meant that Ike had learned his way around their kitchen well enough by then. Still, on the few occasions Ike had found himself attempting one of those prepackaged baking mixes for one reason or the other (for his class on the final day of the year, and the last time his sister visited), all he had learned was that it wasn't so simple as steaming rice or grilling fish. Cakes couldn't be overstirred, had to be tested for doneness, had to rest before you turned them out of their pan - there were so much that could go wrong, even when half the work was done for you to start with. He came away with the impression that baking was a bit too delicate, a bit too temperamental, a bit outside of his experience. 

Ike was determined that this time would be different though. Instead of grabbing whatever box was cheapest at the supermarket (lest Soren complain about wasting money), he researched cooking websites for the right recipe, even though he ended up finding it in a cookbook Titania had given them as a housewarming present ages ago. He took the time to prepare everything by hand – peeling and coring each apple, checking each cracked egg for stray bits of shell, sifting together all the dry ingredients. He kept Oscar on the phone to walk him through all the vague and uncertain details – did it matter that he put the vanilla in before the eggs? Didn't forty-five minutes seem like a long time in the oven? Was there really a difference between baking powder and baking soda?

Despite all of his effort, it still wasn't entirely perfect. One side had risen slightly more than the other, and Ike found himself wondering if the edges were too brown or not. (What exactly was “golden brown” supposed to look like?) He'd also forgotten Oscar's patient admonition, and had poured the glaze over the cake before it was entirely cooled, causing it to mostly run off the sides. But even so, Ike couldn't help but feel satisfied. He only hoped that the one who all of the effort was for would feel the same.

The faint but distinct sound of a car door slamming shut reached his ears over the low hum of the air conditioner, and Ike sighed. He'd hoped to have a little time to clean up before Soren arrived home, even though he knew Soren would just go behind him later anyway. He inspected his dusty hands, shrugged, and wiped them on his jeans before making his was toward the front door, hoping for the sake of Soren's sanity that he wasn't tracking white powder all over the carpet.

“Hey there,” said Ike as the door swung open. He ducked down to leave a quick kiss on Soren's cheek. “Happy birthday.”

“You already told me,” said Soren, resting his laptop case on the floor before shrugging out of a dark gray suit jacket. He hung it on one of the pegs coming off the wall, next to several more like it, and a pair of coats and scarves that hadn't been touched in several months. “Three times, actually.” 

“Did I?”

“Yes. Once before I left this morning, once on the phone during my lunch break, and once in the email you sent me a few hours ago.” He reached a slender, fine-boned hand to his neck to loosen a turquoise-colored tie, and gave Ike a slight flicker of smile. “But... thank you.” 

“Of course,” Ike replied. He went to run a hand through his hair, but remembering the mess they were in, thought the better of it. “Speaking of, how was your day?”

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came, and Soren rolled his eyes as he bent down to untie his shoelaces. “Remind me next year to take my birthday off, because if I have to endure one more collective office serenade... Don't laugh, Ike. You haven't heard their so-called singing.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Ike suppressed his grin, and wondered briefly if it was really all of that painful, or if Soren was just being Soren. “But you know... I have a small surprise for you of my own.”

“Oh? Would it have to do with the smell of cinnamon, or your appearance?” Soren looked up to inspect Ike's white-dusted clothing and skin. 

“Maybe.” Ike reached for Soren's hands as he stood up. “Close your eyes.”

“Wait, wait, I need to take off my shoes.” Soren stared pointedly at Ike's hands around his own, and Ike reluctantly let go. “And I need to put away my laptop,” he added as he placed his shoes neatly under the coats with the short line of others, in their place between his underused sneakers and Ike's well-worn boots. 

“Leave it for now,” said Ike, reaching for Soren's hands once more. “It'll be fine for a few minutes.” 

Soren gave the bag on the floor a dubious glance, as if he didn't really believe Ike for a moment, but he complied, and Ike began leading him to the kitchen.

“Whatever it is, it smells good.”

“You think so?”

“I wouldn't have said so if I didn't think so, Ike.”

He led Soren to the edge of the kitchen table, to the side where the cake was waiting, rather than the side covered with sugar, where the clean outline of a mixing bowl was still visible. He dropped Soren's hands and took him by the shoulders, gently maneuvering him until he was facing the right direction. 

“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Soren did so, and immediately blinked. 

“...Ike? You made this?”

“Mmhmm. Apple cinnamon with a-- well, there was a sugar glaze. It melted a bit.”

“My favorite.”

“I know.”

Red eyes wandered to the floor, as they did anytime someone did something nice for Soren. “You didn't have to do that.”

“I know,” Ike repeated, “but I wanted to.” A step forward and Ike was close enough to enfold Soren in his arms. “Happy birthday. For the fifth time.”

Murmuring words of gratitude, Soren leaned into Ike. “Hmm,” he hummed, “you smell like cinnamon too.”

“I did get a little on my shirt, I think.”

“And – is that flour all over you?” He tilted his head until his eyes settled on Ike's neck, where a smear of white rested.

“No, it's confectioner's sugar. I tried to rip the bag open, and it sort of flew everywhere.” 

A short silence. Ike tried to meet Soren's gaze, but it was firmly fixed just below his chin. “So... shall we?”

“Shall we what?”

“Cut the cake, of course.”

“Hmm... no.”

“...No?” Ike tried to keep the sudden disappointment he felt out of his voice, but he had a feeling he hadn't succeeded. He wondered where he had gone wrong – the melted glaze? The browned edges? 

“I don't want cake right now, Ike.”

“Then what--”

Soren craned his own neck at an angle, and licked away the smudge of powdered sugar he'd been staring at.

“...Oh.”

In an instant Soren was practically clinging to Ike rather than relaxing into his loose embrace, bodies flush, mouth attacking mouth with lips and tongue and the occasional, accidental clash of teeth. One set of wiry fingers ran through blue hair, tugging just enough to sting, the other played about the space between Ike's waistband and the hem of his shirt. 

And all of a sudden, Ike didn't really want cake either.

He found himself blindly, clumsily prying at Soren's tie (sparing a stray thought for how lovely it had looked wrapped around pale wrists a few weeks back), at his collar, at each frustratingly tiny button on his ever-pristine white dress shirt. Halfway down, and Ike grew tired of fumbling, feeling that there were much better things he could be doing with his hands at the moment. He gripped either side of the crisp fabric and yanked.

The thin material tore all too easily, and a button went flying, landing somewhere across the room with a small plastic click. 

“Ike,” Soren intoned without even bothering to pull away from Ike's lips, “what have I told you about that?”

“That you like it.”

An exasperated sigh. “I also told you not to do it anymore, because shirts cost money.”

“But--” Ike gladly explored Soren's newly exposed skin, calloused hands reaching underneath the opened material to trace the outlines of ribs and spine, “you still like it.”

Another sigh was muffled by a deep kiss, and Soren went silent. Another few kisses, against the softness of Soren's neck, spurred on by light pressure from bony fingers, and they were leaning against the edge of the table for support. Yet a few more, and Ike was suddenly on top of him, powdery wooden surface at Soren's back, dull edge digging into the front of Ike's thighs. He leaned up, despite Soren's legs wrapping insistently around him, just enough to remove his shirt, just enough to watch Soren's lips part slightly in anticipation. It fell to the floor with a muted crumple as he lowered himself. 

The backside of a broad hand gently swept aside stray bangs just before their mouths met once again. Ike felt the insides of Soren's arms against his bare shoulders, Soren's palms flat against his back, Soren's body both taut and yielding underneath his own. Warm breath ghosted against his ear while he explored Soren's sharp jawline and beyond – his neck, his shoulders, the hard line of bone over his heart – quickly yet decisively reaffirming every little imprint he had ever made. 

The even planes of Soren's ribcage and stomach were covered with a rapid path of messy kisses, until Ike was left struggling with a belt buckle and the fastenings of gray suit pants without the benefit of close attention. Soren was no help, with his short noises, quick breaths and impatient hands shoving Ike and his giving mouth where he wanted them the most. For a moment Ike indulged him, nuzzling firm flesh through heavy fabric, just enough to make Soren gasp and arch his back. Fast needy fingers tried to keep Ike in place, but he backed away, mumbling something about _wait, not yet_ while turning his concentration back to buckle and zipper, both of them all too anxious to be rid of Soren's pants. A few swift motions from rushing hands, followed by modest clinks and a brief metallic purr, and they were nearly gone, Soren kicking and Ike pulling, until just like Ike's shirt, they too were forgotten on the floor.

Ike leaned back down to impress his lips upon the smooth curve of a hipbone, now forcing himself to carefully delve instead of rush, despite the way Soren's eyes furrowed, half-shut, despite the hidden strength of the fingers digging into his shoulder, and the fragmented little whines that met his ears as his mouth graced the crease at the top of Soren's thigh. Stroking slowly from the inside of a parting knee upward, he traced a line down the center of Soren's stomach with his tongue. But those lean, deceptively strong fingers once more moved from where the rested upon a shoulder to the top of Ike's head, twisting almost painfully among blue locks, pushing, shoving, with a plea from their owner of _Ike, enough_.

And this time, Ike obliged, letting the cold tile floor meet the roughness of his knees. He figured it was only fair - it was Soren's birthday, after all.

Ike used every trick he had learned from years of studying every inch of Soren's skin, every fleeting reaction to every single touch. Slow, thorough movements to start, languid swirls of tongue. Just a few brief, teasing strokes at first, then longer, broader, with greater pressure. He used the pad of his thumb upon the underside, the curved hold of his fingers around the base, the practiced pliability of his lips and tongue as he finally took Soren into his mouth, as his cheeks hollowed around thickly swollen tissue. 

Soren sighed as deeply as if he had been holding his breath, relinquishing his vicelike grip on a handful of Ike's hair, closing his eyes, tilting back his head. Fingers remained buried in Ike's scalp, but rather than rashly yanking they were vaguely encouraging, nearly slack. Pace kept steady, Ike reached his free hand up to Soren's face without ever breaking time, feeling lips part against light pressure from his fingertips, and low reverberations against skin. Mirroring Ike's actions, Soren sucked harder than he needed to and longer than was necessary on a couple of Ike's fingers, coating them thoroughly.

A few strokes later and fingers were withdrawn, thighs were shifted and spread in expectation, a wet fingertip drew secret little circles that piqued Soren's entire body. One small push elicited a soft gasp, then another, digits pressed into slick warm muscle, unhurried, almost tentative, but steadily gaining in stride. It took but a moment for Ike to sync his dual rhythms, mouth and hands all working as one to turn Soren nearly subverbal. Dragging his nails across the powdered surface of the table, across any of Ike's skin he could reach, Soren helplessly rocked into Ike's waiting mouth, back against his relentless fingers, again and again and again until it all became nearly too much.

“Mm, Ike... I can't-- please--”

Ike backed away, recognizing the ring of desperation in Soren's voice. He scrambled to his feet again, dipping to linger upon Soren's pale skin, his frustration-bitten lips. Soren leaned in at first, returning frenzied kisses, shamelessly grinding bare skin into the rough material of Ike's annoyingly present jeans, whispering _you smell so good_. But in a single, unbroken motion Ike was shoved away, Soren's torn, soiled shirt was tossed to the side, and he had rolled himself about, stomach laid flat upon smooth hardwood, side of a slightly flushed cheek pressed against the table's dusty surface. Ike watched everything in silent awe as Soren murmured something in clipped, coarse language, something between begging and commanding.

One more quickly unbuckled belt, one last caress of large hands over Soren's lithe frame. One fluid push, perhaps a bit slower than Soren would have liked, yet a little faster than Ike intended. He touched his mouth to every part of Soren he could – his prominent shoulderblades, the curving shell of his ear – and watched Soren's splayed fingers curl into a fist. “Soren,” Ike breathed into tangling dark hair, against the nape of a pale, slender neck. He was aware of blunt semicircle nails coarsely scratching against wood, the scents of mingling moisture and faint ginger shampoo brushing against his nose, of enticing heat radiating from the body beneath him as they breathed together, delved together, _moved_ together.

Ike bit down harshly upon his lower lip, halfway expecting to taste a metallic tinge, drew in a abrupt breath in an attempt to refocus. He felt the sweep of Soren's hips both give and resist under the pressure of his strong hands, heard a slight hitch in Soren's throat as he pressed his mouth to the back of Soren's neck once again before closing his eyes and resting his head on Soren's left shoulder, covered with now-dirty and mussed hair, and gratefully inhaled the sharp-sweet scent of Soren's skin, distilled from their closeness and movements. He shifted, adjusted; moved even faster, harder; determined to hear more before he let himself be overwhelmed. 

But at the change in pace, Soren sighed, gasped, and attempted to arch his back in a way that let Ike feel every little bit of bone in his spine for a split second, in a way that almost made Ike lose his fragile poise right then. He gritted his teeth in an effort to maintain control, but he found that he didn't care about being overwhelmed, _he just did not care_ anymore. Not with Soren now moving in time against him, not with Soren's sighs and gasps taking on too high of a tone to really be called such any longer. Craning his neck – awkward, but worth the effort – Ike met Soren's lips with his own for the briefest of moments as he released his grip on one side to snake a hand further around Soren's body. He stroked fast, twisted faster, but all without teasing now, wanting only to give Soren a little bit of what he was feeling himself as everything began to turn turbulent, delirious; as he let himself meet Soren's alluring breaths and clipped moans with ones of his own; as he let his world become nothing but Soren – _Soren_ – beside him, underneath him, _around_ him. 

And finally, he heard Soren say his name just once in a strangled, low whine – _Ike_ – 

They both remained just as they were for more than a few moments – desperate for cold air, seeing but not seeing. Ike always liked to imagine that it felt the same for Soren on the inside after it was all over as it did for him. Nerves tingling, mind sedated, yet all senses overloaded. As his heartbeat returned to something closer to normal, and the memory of their shared gratification became more of a glimmer than a blaze, Ike briefly considered asking. Instead though, when he propped himself up on his arms and saw Soren's eyes shut, his hair still laying across his face and his back in a matted mess, all Ike could think to do was to brush it aside.

Soren hummed his approval, red eyes lazily fluttering open. “I cannot believe we just did that,” he murmured, voice slightly scratchy. The dim rumbles of his words echoed between them.

“I can believe it,” Ike replied, laughing a little. 

“We should get up,” Soren's voice sounded a bit more like himself then, but he didn't sound entirely convinced of his own idea.

“Hm. Yeah, we probably should,” Ike halfheartedly agreed. “But doesn't getting up involve moving?”

“Yes,” Soren told him. “But we have to move eventually.” He sounded gravely serious.

“Do we?”

A moment of silence. “You can't possibly be comfortable as you are, Ike.”

“Are you?”

“You answer me first.”

“Ha – _you_ didn't ask a question.” 

Soren pressed his lips together in a tight line, and an unrestrainable grin spread across Ike's face.

“Fine. I am beginning to develop an ache in my lower back, and the lip of the table is digging into the upper reaches of my thighs in a rather unpleasant manner.” Soren also took a deep breath, and wrinkled his nose. “And I think we could both us a shower.”

Ike glanced to the side, at the silver gleam of the kitchen faucet. “We could just clean up in the si--”

“Ike,” Soren warned.

“What?” He gave Soren an innocent look, disentangling himself and standing, stepping back, stretching. “The faster we clean up, the faster we can cut the cake.”  
Soren stopped gathering his discarded clothes for a moment to peer at the object in question, where it was still waiting at the opposite end of the heavy oak table. “It's a miracle it didn't fall on the floor, you know,” he noted dryly. 

Ike nudged a stray apple peel with a bare foot and shrugged, looking down and staring at the movements of his toes to hide a slight smirk. “The table was your idea, Soren.”

Soren was curiously silent. He went about gathering the rest of his clothing, inspecting the damage done to his tattered former dress shirt before grimacing at it one last time, padding to the trash can and tossing it away. 

“Anyway. Come on, Ike.”

“But don't you want to try your cake now?” Ike tried not to frown, and tried not to think about how he had spent all afternoon cutting, peeling, baking, worrying.

And at that, Soren softened a bit – just a bit – because he knew that look and what it meant. “Of course I do. You made it for me, and it is my favorite.” He frowned a tiny bit too. “But it will wait for us. _After_ we shower.”

“Come on Soren, just one little bi--”

“We can shower together.”

And all of a sudden, Soren found himself being led down the hallway leading to the bathroom. The cake would indeed have to wait.


End file.
